


Longing

by zillah1199



Category: Dragon Age II
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-31
Updated: 2013-01-31
Packaged: 2017-11-27 15:37:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 774
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/663655
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zillah1199/pseuds/zillah1199
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I was inspired by a prompt (and its fill) on DA kink meme, but I took a slightly different approach.<br/>Cullen longs for a certain mage.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Longing

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Cullen + mage!Hawke, secrets](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/16541) by Anon. 



The Knight Captain stood in a patch of sunlight outside the Gallows, trying to focus his attention anywhere but the two mages bartering with Solivitus. Hawke and Anders. He knew what they were and he looked the other way. Had done for years, each glossed over transgression making it harder and harder for him to claim he was doing it for the good of Kirkwall, for the peace of the city, for all the people they helped. Not looking at them meant he wouldn't have to grind his teeth in frustration at the cow eyes they made at each other, the soppy glances and the excuses they made to touch each other, the timeless dance of flirtatious longing.

It seemed the Maker had put mages on this earth as a personal torment, a way of making sure he, Cullen, Templar and Knight Captain was always painfully aware of his own weaknesses and failings. Aware that every time he heard that one particular voice, or caught a glimpse of the one face he so often searched for in the crowd, his heart would lurch beneath his armour, his breath catch in his throat. How ironic, to have come to Kirkwall to escape the memory of one mage only to find himself ensnared again. And so he said nothing when Hawke and her band of miscreants, apostates and rogues flaunted themselves under his very nose. He looked past the little elvhen mage in the Alienage, the free clinic in Darktown or any of the other blatant offences, because to draw attention to any one of them would be to draw attention to all of them, and that he could not bear. 

Cullen was no fool. He knew how things worked in the Gallows, knew the system was far from perfect. It was the best they had though, and if some had to suffer to protect everyone from greater suffering, then perhaps that was the Maker's will. He did what he could to prevent the worst of the abuses, as often as he was able. But not, and here he knew himself for a hypocrite, _his_ mage (oh how he wished it were so). He could not bear to see that face clouded in fear, that back striped by the lash – or worse, bowed and forced on bended knee to service those Templars even weaker and more despicable than himself. Not as long as Cullen had the power to prevent it. He could not allow it, nor he feared, could he trust himself, by having the one he desired so close at hand. He was not the sort of man who abused his power, he would not become that sort of man. 

Weakness. Longing. Inescapable as the rise and set of the sun. His eyes surveyed the courtyard, trying - and failing - not to linger on two heads, one dark, one light, bent together as they compared shopping lists, perhaps, or discussed the merits of this herb versus that. Four eyes glanced back at him and he flushed slightly. Anders glared, while Hawke's gaze slid over him, dismissing him entirely. Eyes that saw, not Cullen, but _Templar_ ; he could feel the word as a sneer under his skin, a curse. Oppressor. Enemy. Eyes that did not love, did not long, while his own eyes, filled with desire, struggled to look away.

He turned his face to the docks before the sting of rejection made itself plain on his face. No matter how weak and pained he felt on the inside, it must not show. Not for him the sort of soft gazes they turned on each other. Not for him the affection, the warmth in those sweet eyes. The hand that touched that cheek would never wear Templar armour. Those warm lips would never welcome him, graceful hands would never caress him, eyes never flutter at his touch, except behind his own closed lids, alone at night in his quarters. Then he could imagine hands that were not his own caressing his chest, stroking his length, touching him just _there_ , where it burned the sweetest, urging him to spill his passion.

He watched them go, knowing he would dream tonight, as he always did, imagining he had the courage - the audacity - to take the long road down to Darktown, to pull a mage into his arms, and whisper his desire into red-gold hair and honey eyes, stripping the robes from them both, tasting flesh and stubble, long legs and healer's hands. To claim that one mage he longed for above all others. Claim him with lips, and breath and body, make him his mage, his Anders, at last.


End file.
